Sociopaths Are Surprisingly Good Parents
by Madame Cross Marian
Summary: When Sherlock Holmes, known to her friends as Cyril, first met Jim Moriarty she felt they had a "special something". Well, maybe they did because this is the adventures of Cyril Holmes as she goes through season three as the single mother of a serial killers daughters. And she wouldn't have it any other way. Fem!Sherlock
1. Chapter 1

AN: My acess to my phone has been restricted do to my somewhat rapidly failing vision and thus this is the first story I have ever written on an actual keyboard, even if it a is a bluetooth keyboard hooked up to my kindle. My second non-anime fanfiction, let's see how this goes shall we?

-Story Start-

"I knew you'd fall for it. That's your weakness. You always want everything to be clever," Moriarty ranted animatedly (could you expect anything less from him?) As he walked lazily over the edge of the roof, "Glad you chose a tall building. Nice way to do it."

"Do what?- ah. Yes. Of course: my suicide."

"Genius detective proved to be a fraud. I read it in the papers so it must be true. I love newspapers," he mocked in an accent obviously created to accentuate the idiocracy of the statement before switching to his normal voice, though with a slightly darker edge. "And fairytales..." he looked over the edge. "And pretty grimm ones, too."

"I can still prove that you created an entirely false identi-"

"Oh, just kill yourself; it's a lot less effort. Women are never quite as good the second time anyways."

"What do you mean by-"

"You've known it was an option. I believe, however, you've already resigned yourself to suicide. What a shame. Too bad such a lovely face has such and ordinary mind," he shook his head and prodded her slightly with his foot. "Well go on. Off your pock."

She lashed out, grabbing him by his collar and hung him over the edge. Her features were twisted into one of about the closest emotions she would outwardly express to anything akin to rage. In fact, this normally cooly collected woman looked, in a word; pissed. Very pissed indeed.

"You're insane!"

"You're just getting that now?"

She hung him further over the edge and he made strange mock-frightened noises.

"Okay- let me give you a little extra incentive: your friends will die if you don't."

"John?"

"Not just John: _everyone_."

"Everyone."

"...Lestrade."

"Three bullets. Three gunman. Three victims. Nothing can stop them now."

She pulled him back up on the roof, and he whispered seductively in her ear.

"Unless my people see you jump- or going out that front door with my arm around your waist." He backed off. "You can arrest me. You can torture me. You can do anything you like with me. But nothings gonna stop them from pulling that trigger. Your only three friends in the world will die. Unleeessss..."

"Unless I jump. Complete your story."

"Well I was hoping you'd say fuck, but I've gotta admit that sounds sexier."

"And I die in disgrace."

"Well of course, that's the point," he said. He glanced down again. "Ah. You've gathered an audience... well go on."

She stepped up on the roof ledge.

"Your death is the only thing that's gonna call off the killers. I'm certainly not gonna do it."

She swallowed.

"Will you just give me a moment, please," she paused. "One moment of privacy. Please."

"...Of course." He began to walk away and she surveyed the city scene before her calculatedly. She had never liked heights. She began to laugh, muffled at at first, but it grew in noise levels until Moriarty swung around an began to stalk back towards her. "What? What is it? What did I miss?"

She turned around and leaped gracefully back onto the roof.

"You're not going to do it. So the killers can be called off then. There's a recall word, or a code, or a number." She began circling him. "I don't have to die. If I've got you," she sang the last bit. Moriarty had a look of exaggerated, over-the-top understanding as he let out an equally so "oh".

"You think you can make me stop the order, you think you can do that?"

"Yes... and so do you."

"Honey, your big brother and all the king's horses couldn't make me do a thing I didn't want to."

"Yes, but I'm not my brother, remember?"

"Oh yes, I know." He stated suggestively. She ignored him and went on in her explanation.

"I am you. Prepared to do anything. Prepared to burn. Prepared to do what ordinary people won't do. You want me to shag you in hell, I shall not disappoint you."

"Nah... you won't. You're ordinary. You're ordinary; you're on the side of the angles."

"I may be on the side of the angels," she proclaimed sagely, carrying herself much more imposing than her below average stature that placed the top of her head not quite up to Jim's shoulder should have allowed , "but don't believe for a second that I am one of them."

"No... you're not. I see. You're not ordinary," the gap between them was getting smaller and smaller by the second. "You're _me_... you're me! Thank you! Sherlock Holmes," he put he hand on her waist and the gap between them was practically non-existant. "Thank you- _bless you_." In moments they were kissing for the second time since they first met. When they finally pulled apart he held out his hand for her to shake, which she took. "As long as I'm alive you can save your friends... well good luck with that." He quickly pulled out a pistol and in a matter of seconds there was a hole in the back of his skull.

-1-1-1-

Sherlock finally succeeded in her efforts to force her serbian torturer to leave. His higher ranking officer was, apparently, Mycroft.

"Do you have any idea the trouble it took to track you down?" He began in Serbian before switching back to english, "There's and underground terrorist organization in London, and attack is imminent. Sorry, but vacation is over, sister dear. Back to Bakers street."

"Just grab the twins and off I go."

"Twins?"

-1-1-1-

"How do you have children!?"

"What do you mean 'how'? You were the one who gave me a power point presentation when I was eleven!"

"So that you would _avoid_ such situations, and for years you led me to believe I had succeeded! Who is the father? If you don't tell me I shall-"

"Why don't you... _deduce_, brother mine?" Sherlock countered, glaring daggers at him. In her arms was one of the twin girls Mycroft had recently discovered she had gave birth to at some point in her two year absence. He walked over the the one in the crib. It had dark brown, almost black, hair, and Sherlock's piercing bright eyes, and well as her pleasantly contrasting pale skin. He went to the one in his sister's arms. It was identical in every way to it's sister aside from deep chocolate brown eyes. There were only two men she had ever in constant contact with at any point of her life, and concluded that Lestrade could be ruled out immediately.

"John?"

"Not even close."

"Sherlock," he began seeming both angry and concerned, "I understand that it's difficult for you to overcome your cocaine addiction, but-"

"I didn't have sex with a junkie in exchange for cocaine!"

"Then it's someone I know."

"In a way."

A look of realization hit his face and he collapsed in his desk chair, burying his hands in his face.

"I always knew there was another reason I hated him. Goddamn Jim Moriaty."

One of the twins laughed.

"Which one was that?"

"Aaralyn. The one in the crib." The other child joined its twin in laughter. "And this is Colette. Aaralyn Marie and Colette Rosalind Moriarty-Holmes."

"Oh, for God's sake," Mycroft groaned. This would be a long year.

-Chapter End-

AN: Well, I guess it turned out better than I thought it would. Hope you liked it! :D


	2. Chapter 2

AN: Sherlock was only gone one year in this story instead of two. The twins are three months old. Did anyone understand the reference with their middle names being Marie and Rosalind, respectively? No? Well you will in either this chapter or the next, I'm not sure yet.

-Chapter Start-

"I need you to give this matter your full attention, Cyril. Is that quite clear?"

"How do you like this shirt?"

"Cyril!" Mycroft glared exasperatedly at his sister. Instead of worrying about the imminent danger at hand his sister was fussing greatly over the placement of the ruffles on her new white shirt which she tucked primly into her formfitting black pencil skirt. Her shoulder-length dark brown hair was tied up in an elaborate bun with curled ringlets framing either side of her pale face. She nonchalantly slipped on a pair of black kitten heels as her brother rambled on about the great importance of her task, growing more and more frustrated with her noncommittal responses.

"And what about John Watson?"

"John?"

"Yes, have you seen him?" She replied impatiently as she finished being OCD about her clothing and scooped up Colette, who had begun to cry as she spoke, bouncing her about soothingly and humming some sort of melody.

"Oh yes, we meet up every Friday for fish and chips!" He countered sarcastically. He held out a file to his sister, who didn't look away from her child or stop humming for a second as she took it. "I've kept a weather eye on him, of course." She finally tore her eyes away to flip through the file, raising a skeptical eyebrow at the photo of John with his mustache. "You haven't been in touch at all, to prepare him?"

"No," she replied distractedly as she set back down the now pacified Colette. "Well, we'll have to get rid of that," she stated in reference to John's mustache.

"'We'?"

"He looks ancient. I can't be seen wandering around with an old man."

"Because two children doesn't affect your image at all?" He retorted. She ignored him, closed the file, lifted up a child in either arm, and strode more gracefully out of the room than she had any right to in her situation.

-1-1-1-

After acquiring a large framed pair of glasses and a dark shade of lipstick for disguise, Cyril, Aaralyn held carefully in her arms, set her plan into motion. She slid a small pink stuffed dog under John and Mary's table from a few feet away without their noticing and walked meekly up, tapping John on the shoulder to get his attention.

"Excuse me, sir," she began in a timid sounding voice with a slight French accent, "but my baby's toy has rolled under your table. Would you mind retrieving it for me?" At Mary's laughter she was internally confused, but kept up a concerned façade, as if she felt rude to interrupt their meal. "Oh, I'm terribly sorry if I'm interrupting something!"

"No, no- it's fine," John said somewhat reluctantly, though his expression softened slightly as Aaralyn giggled along with Mary. As he ducked under the table in search of the toy, Mary attempted small talk about the baby in her arms.

"So what's her name?"

"Aaralyn, but we call her Aria. I wanted to name her Marie, after the chemist Marie-Currie, but my...guardian...didn't approve, so that's her middle name instead."

"Oh, are you a chemist?"

"A bit of one. Maybe without the glasses you would recognize my face..." she said dramatically, whipping off her glasses and turning to face John, just as he rose back up up. She smiled softly at his shocked expression. "Interesting thing, having children. Makes you a stand out to strangers and unrecognizable to friends."

John ducked down his head emotionally momentarily before lifting it back up again and stumbling somewhat clumsily to his feet.

"John?" Mary questioned, concerned. He didn't respond, instead glaring up murderously at Cyril. "John, what is it? What's wrong?"

Even Cyril looked to be feeling a bit awkward at John's response. "Well, short version is:" she provided a somewhat tense smile, "'not dead.'"

John's rage seemed to be climbing steeper yet quicker by the second. Cyril finally seemed to realize that he was mildly upset.

"Bit mean, springing it on you like that, I know. Could have given you a heart attack, still probably will. But, in my defense, it was funny." She laughed nervously without meeting John's eyes. "Okay, maybe it's not a great defense..."

"Oh no! You're-"

"Oh yes."

"You died- you jumped off a roof!"

"Not quite."

"You're _dead_!"

"No. I'm quite sure. I checked. Excuse me," she dipped a napkin in the glass of water and wiped away her lipstick.

"Oh my god, oh my god- do you have any idea what you've done to him!?" Cyril looked startled at the anger in Mary's voice.

"Okay, John, I'm suddenly realizing that I probably owe you some sort of apology."

John slammed his fist violently down onto the table, though to the manufacturers credit it held strong.

"Alright, just...John? Just keep..."

"An entire year," John strained to choke out. "A year. I thought... I thought you were dead." He took a deep, shaky breath. "You let me grieve. How could you do that?"

Cyril pretended to be preoccupied with straightening out an imaginary crease on Aria's dress.

"_How?_"

"Now, before we do anything we might regret here, aside from reminding you of the small, delicate child in my arms that I know you don't want to hurt, let me ask you one question- just one:" she stifled a giggled, if rather poorly, and gestured to her own upper lip, "are you- are you really gonna keep that?"

Mary laughed in disbelief and John began a roaring stream of curses at his old friend, causing her baby to start throwing a small temper tantrum as if in defense of it's mother. Moments later John is dragged out and banned from the restaurant, and Cyril has an apology and unlimited access to free wine from said restaurant. She planted a kiss on her child's forehead and marched out laughing to catch up with John. These kids gave her more advantages than she originally thought.

-Later, at a café-

"I calculated there thirteen possibilities once I invited Moriarty onto the roo-"

"As much as I have so many things I'd much rather be asking you, I have to ask out of concern for some poor mother out there: who's child have you kidnapped?"

"Kidnapped?" Cyril gave Aria a perplexed look, which the child shot back as though in agreement. "Really John, have my lessons of deduction taught you nothing? Even members of my homeless network figured this one out, I mean, she couldn't possibly look anymore like me."

"Are you saying-"

"Yes. She's mine-actually, I have two. Mycroft's babysitting the other- it's a bit difficult to carry around two babies at once."

"_How_?"

"Why does everybody as that? Obviously, I had-"

"Please, don't go any further than that. It's just wrong coming from you. Allow me to change my question: _who_?"

"Oh, telling you would be no fun. Have another go when you see Lettie- short for Colette."

"I don't plan to suddenly go back to trailing after you now just because you're back, Sherlock!"

"Oh, full first name. That's never a good sign, remember that Aria."

"I don't care how you faked your death, and I don't care who the father of your children is- _why_?"

"Because Moriarty had to be stopped." She choked slightly while speaking of the incident, but he didn't notice. She cocked her head slightly to the left at John's "you are so thick sometimes" expression before realization visibly dawned upon her. "Oh. That why. That's a bit more complicated..."

"I've got all night," John stated darkly.

"Well, you see, that was mostly my Mycroft's idea."

"Oh, so it was your _brother's _plan?" He drawled mockingly.

"Oh!" Mary exclaimed comprehension, pointing at Cyril, "she would need a confident!" One glance at John's expression silenced her. "Sorry."

John turned his attention back to Cyril. "But he was the only one? The only one who knew?"

Cyril seemed to close her eyes briefly as if trying to decide wether speaking her next sentence would be in her best interest or not. "A couple of others." She glanced up at him with a guilty expression before going back to fixing that /god damn crease/ that simply wouldn't go away. "I was a very elaborate plan- it /had/ to be. Anyway, the next of the thirteen possibilities was-"

"Who else?"

She really needed to iron that dress.

"_Who else_?"

"...Molly."

"Molly?!" He exclaimed incredulously.

"John," Mary began.

"Molly Hooper and some of my homeless network. That's all!"

"Okay. Just your brother, Molly Hooper, and a hundred tramps!"

"No! Twenty-five at most."

-Later, at a kebob shop-

"Seriously? It's not a joke?" Cyril gestured to John's mustache. "You're really keeping that?"

"Yes!"

"You're sure?"

"Mary likes it."

"Mmmmmmm, no she doesn't."

"She does."

"She doesn't."

John glanced at a guilty looking Mary.

"Oh, brilliant."

"I'm sorry, I just didn't know how to tell you-"

"Oh, no, no, this is fantastic," he spoke in a sarcastic tone and gestured to Cyril, "I've really missed this!" He frowned and took a step towards her. "One word. One word to let me know you were alive is all I would have needed."

"I nearly came in contact so many times-" John scoffed "-but I worried you would say something... indiscreet. You know- let the cat out of the bag."

"So this is _my _fault!?"

Mary laughed, which seemed to send John further into the pits of rage.

"Why am I the only one who thinks this is wrong- the only one reacting like a bloody human being!?"

After another shouting match, sending Aria into her third fit of the night, Cyril finally got around to her purpose of requesting John's help, and, Aria having been passed off to Mary, John finally got his opportunity to sock her in the nose.

-Chapter End-

AN: We praise whatever god you believe in and all of the ones you don't for online scripts and a photographic memory. Hallelujah.


	3. Chapter 3

AN: Hola

-Chapter Start-

"Talk to John."

"I've tried. He made his position quite clear," Cyril stated in an indignant manner as she peered into the fridge. The bottom shelf held fingers in different brands of baby food. She was trying to see which one best prevented human decay. Aria and Lettie were both asleep in their cribs in the living room.

"What did he say?"

Cyril frowned and closed the fridge. "'Fuck off.'"

"Oh dear!"

-1-1-1-

Molly walked in on Cyril glaring confusedly at Lettie, who was chewing rather intently on her fingers. She stood in the doorway awkwardly, not knowing wether or not to enter.

"Er, you wanted to see me?"

"Ye-_why does she keep doing that?_"

"I think she's teething, Cyril."

"But Aria isn't doing it!"

"Every baby is different- even twins."

"Oh, how would you know!" Cyril seemed to recollect herself as she stood up, still in her dressing gown I might add, and waltzed over to her friend. "Anyways, would you..."

"Yes?"

"Would you like to..."

"Babysit?"

"Solve crimes with me?"

-1-1-1-

"This one's got us all baffled."

"I don't doubt it," Cyril stated bluntly as Lestrade tore down the yellow tape and she strode through the hole in the wall. Lettie was held gently, yet securely, in her arms and Aria held in the much more clumsy, but still loving, arms of Molly. As she investigated, the annoying voice of John continued to pester her, and it did not help her mood that the case was revealed to be a fluke.

**You forgot to turn your collar up**

Why were all the men in her life such persistent assholes?

-1-1-1-

Cyril reviewed the security footage again. A man got in the train on stop a and on stop b he was gone.

"So if the driver of the train was in on it then the passenger _did _get off!"

"There's nowhere he could go- no side tunnels, no maintenance tunnels, no anything on any map!"

Cyril closed her eyes, replaying the video in her mind. She mentally paused on the face and muttered, "I know that face..."

-1-1-1-

Cyril dropped her chips and rushed down the stairs with a yell over her shoulder ordering to watch the twins. They arrived at the church just in time to save John from burning to death. And it all happened so fast; Cyril didn't even stop to wander how Mary recognized a skip code.

-1-1-1-

"Which wasn't the way I'd put it at all. Silly woman. Anyway, it was then I'd first realized it was missing. I said, 'have you checked down the back of the sofa?' He's always loosing things down the back of the sofa. Aren't you, dear?"

"'Fraid so."

Cyril fidgeted anxiously, casting frequent glances to her bedroom door where her children were napping. She kicked a small brightly colored toy under the desk with her heel before her parents noticed, and tried to keep from falling asleep as her mother droned on and on about nothing. She was saved, however, as John strolling on in.

"John!" She exclaimed in equal parts relief and surprise.

"Sorry. You're busy."

"No-no-no, they were just leaving!"

"We were?"

"Yes!"

"No, no, if you've got a case-"

"No, no, not a case. No-no-no," she exclaimed, turning back to her mother, "Go. Bye!"

"Yes, well, we're here 'til Saturday, remember-"

"Yes, great, wonderful, just get out!" Cyril exclaimed, ushering her parents towards the door.

"Well, give us a ring."

"Very nice, yes, good, _get out_," she commanded, feeling a tad too Mycroft-ish in her opinion. Once thy were successfully herded onto the landing Cyril attempted to slam the door shut, only for her mother to jab her foot in the gap at the last second.

"We can't tell you how glad we are, Cyril. All that time people thinking the worst of you. We're just so glad it's over."

Cyril glanced at John and grimaced, then pulled sharply on the door as if hoping it would magically close through her mother's foot.

"Ring up more often, won't you?"

"Mm-hmm," she replied distractedly.

"She worries," her father piped in.

"Promise?" Her mum insisted. Cyril gave her a defeated look.

"Promise," she whispered reluctantly. Her mother smiled and reached up to stroke her cheek.

"Oh, for god-" she hurriedly slammed the door. She sighed in relief and turn to face John just as one of the twins started crying, which set off the other one as well. She rushed into her room and reappeared just as quick with a child in either arm, though one was muffled by a pacifier. The other had obviously refused. She passed the calmed one off to John, not bothering to ask for permission first.

"Clients?"

"Not clients," Cyril sighed, "Parents." She glared down at the now slightly pacified Lettie in her arms. "If you two ever treat me like that you'll be in whole new worlds of trouble, understand?"

"Parents?"

"They're in town for a few days."

"_Your_ parents?"

"Mycroft promised to take them to a matinee of "Les Mis". Tried to convince me to do it instead."

"Those were _your_ parents?"

"Yes."

"Well..." John laughed slightly, "That is not what I..."

"What?"

"I mean, they're just so..." he glanced up at Cyril who had one of her fine eyebrows lifted in inquiry. "...ordinary."

Cyril scoffed and walked away over to her picture wall, casually marking a large X through one of them. "It is a cross I have to bear."

"Did they know you were alive, too?"

"Mm-hmm," she responded distractedly, and shot him a quick, somewhat apologetic look. "Sorry."

"So that's why they weren't at the funeral."

"Yeah- sorry. If it makes you feel any better, they don't know about the twins, and you do!"

"Oh, loads better," he said sarcastically. He had an expression of the thought and after a moment something seemed to hit him. "Why _don't_ they know?"

"I would never hear the end of it," she said and began to mock her mother's voice, "'Sherlock Nicolette Holmes!' 'You can't do that before your married, Cyril!' 'Why didn't I get a say in naming my grandchildren!' 'Why hasn't this man proposed?' 'Your boyfriend is a serial killer?!'"

John couldn't help but chuckle as his friend had the expression of a small child afraid to tell her mum that she was the one who broke the vase. He made a mental note to help her out with the twins as much as reasonably possible- the world didn't need three Cyrils. He was snapped out of his thoughts by said woman commenting on his mustache, or lack thereof.

"I see you shaved it off, then."

"It wasn't working for me," he said, though he knew the lie was rather obvious.

"Hm, I'm glad."

"What, you didn't like it?"

"No, I prefer my doctors clean shaven," she stated with a small smile. Lettie was now calmly chewing on her fingers, and he could see two teeth starting to grow in.

"That's not something you hear everyday," he expressed, plopping down unceremoniously into his old chair.

"So how are you feeling?" Cyril asked without taking her eyes off her picture wall.

"Not bad. A bit...smoked."

Cyril scoffed at his pun. "Right."

John shifted around awkwardly in his chair and looked at her seriously.

"Last night...who was that? Why did they target _me_?"

"I don't know," she said with a tired yawn that scrunched up her face and deepened the faint bags under her eyes.

"Is someone trying to get to you through me? Is it something about that terrorist thing you were talking about?"

"_I don't know_. I can't see the pattern. It's too nebulous." She turned and strode back towards her wall of information. "Why would an agent give his life to tell us something so insignificant? That's what's strange."

"'Give his life?'"

"According to Mycroft. There's an underground terrorist network planning an attack on London." She looked down as if in thought for a moment before her eyes drifted back up the her picture wall, to which she gestured dramatically. "These are my rats, John!"

"Rats?"

"My markers, John! Agents, low-lifes, people who might find find themselves arrested or their diplomatic immunity suddenly suspended. If any of them start behaving suspiciously then we know something's up. Five of them have been acting perfectly normal, but the sixth..." she pointed to the photograph of the man from the disappearing cars.

"I know him, don't I?"

"Lord Moran, peer of the realm, minister for overseas development. Pillar of establishment."

"Yes!"

"He's been working for North Korea since 1996."

"What?"

"He's the big rat. Rat number one. And he's just done something very suspicious indeed."

-Chapter End-

AN: Heey, I updated! :D


End file.
